


Assorted Crossover And Miscellaneous AskBox Fics

by Aenonnymoose



Category: Cabin Pressure, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Sherlock (TV), Star Trek, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Askbox Fic, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, Humor, M/M, Multi, Pegging, Romance, Sexual Content, Star Trek Reboot - Freeform, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenonnymoose/pseuds/Aenonnymoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are various askbox fics based on crossovers between fandoms and the occasional oddball miscellaneous thing that doesn't have its own category, written on <a href="http://aenonnymoose.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. AskBox Ficlet: Cabin Pressure/BBC Sherlock - MC/MollyH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Gotta admit, it’s daffily sweet the way Martin always phones Molly whenever they land anywhere – especially if anything’s gone awry. Every fucking time. Douglas teases him about it – you know he does, the sod – and Carolyn acts like Martin’s being such a lovestruck fool, but all four times Martin’s motherfucking cheap-ass mobile battery’s gone flat, one of them has just held out their own damned phone with a long-suffering sigh. Fucking tell me they aren’t romantics at heart. Ha!

~MF-Anon


	2. AskBox Fic: Cabin Pressure/BBC Sherlock - MC/MollyH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)
> 
> (Also posted at DW: “Martin And Molly Experiment With Pegging: http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=6772495#cmt6772495 For the prompt: http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2794255#cmt2794255)

Molly’s whole body shivers slightly from a surge of alarmingly sharp arousal as Martin slowly, carefully, fills her with something a little thicker than his penis, but with similar yielding firmness.

“Y-you’re sure, Molly?” Martin whispers shakily, wide-eyed and flushed in a strange mixture of apprehension and arousal. She nods, biting her lip at the feeling of fullness, enjoying it more than she expected.

“You gave me my fantasy, Martin,” she reminds him, moaning a little when the head of the silicone shaft bottoms out inside her. “There!” she confirms, tightening her inner muscles, which sends another shudder through her, and she asks breathily, “Ready?” Martin kneels up, licking his lips and nodding. Molly manoeuvres onto her knees carefully, the heaviness of the thing between her legs strange, but looking down at it, she feels a ripple of eagerness. They’re really going to do this.

Martin is looking at it, too, and he swallows thickly. “I… just… go slow.”

Molly giggles unexpectedly, urging her lover to turn around. He goes willingly, getting on his hands and knees, bottom towards her. She puts her hands on the curve of his hips – again appreciates that he has as curvy a bottom as Sherlock ever had – and lowers her voice to a sultry purr. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll be gentle.”

Martin giggles then, and the back of his neck goes as pink as his face surely must still be. “God, Molly, this is… okay, I’m ready.” Martin nods again several times and shifts position, making his bum wiggle within Molly’s grip. She rather likes it.

“Widen your legs a bit, you’re too high,” she says, voice breathless in spite of herself. He does it wordlessly, but she can see and hear that he’s breathing a little fast, too. Kneeling up, she reaches over and takes up the bottle of lube, adding more, just in case. Martin looks over his shoulder, no doubt feeling the loss of her hands.

Upon seeing her stroking lube onto a fake penis – a dark pink one, for that matter - he licks his full lips. Molly supposes some women would be unhappy at that hungry look, but Molly only feels that much more determined to give Martin what he wants. Maybe, considering how aroused she is by all this, it’s what SHE wants, too. More than she even realised. So she guides the tip of the dark pink silicone phallus, and Martin whimpers softly as it presses gently against his puckered orifice.

Martin chose to prepare himself, to make sure he was slicked and able to take three of his own fingers, kissing Molly with increasing passion the whole while, and so she knows this shouldn’t hurt him; the dildo still looks too big to her. Molly holds onto the base of it, pushing till she sees and feels the slight give, and at Martin’s back of the throat squeak, she backs off, asking softly, “Too much?”

Martin shakes his head. “No, it’s… intense. Go on, please. It’s good.”

Molly licks her lips and moves closer, enjoying how the rounded nubs on the shaft press against her clit. “Tell me if I should stop,” she cautions, although they’ve already agreed on this.

“I will. Unless I say stop… keep going… I like it,” Martin assures her. So she rubs the curve of his bum, the skin almost as finely smooth as her own, and pushes in, and there’s a moment of resistance before the dildo slides in again. Martin moans, head lowering, hips canting up slightly. 

Encouraged, Molly keeps the pressure, going in a little further and getting another low moan from Martin. Easing back a bit, she then pushes forward, and Martin’s moan is uneven, breathier, and she can hear him swallow. It’s fascinating, seeing the dark pink shaft disappear into Martin’s body – is this what it’s like for him when they have sex? She almost wishes she could feel it the way a man would, the heat of his body, the give as she enters him, would she like it? Would Martin?

Continuing like this, she’s feeling the movements, too. The thick shaft inside her anchoring the dildo that extends forward, which is almost three-quarters buried in her lover’s bum. And the sounds he’s making! Deep moans and whimpers, his body shuddering each time she goes further in. She caresses his hip and he whispers hoarsely, “Oh, Molly… yes… yes!”

Molly feels a sharp curl of lust low in her belly and a of rush of wetness. “More, baby?” she asks, her own voice lower, rougher.

Martin makes an indescribable noise, not moan or whimper, lowering his forehead to the mattress, whispering hoarsely, “Please, Molly.” It’s both a request for more and looks sort of like submission, and Molly loosens her grip on the dildo, rolling her hips to see how it feels to move it with her own body – via the other end that’s inside her – and that sensation combined with the caress of the little nubs makes her moan. “Molly?” Martin queries, turning but not lifting his head.

“It’s good,” she says, moving again, and he moans like before as she repeats, “so good.”

He gives a low laugh, almost sultry. “I was hoping it would be… go ahead, love. Do it.” Molly bites her lip, as much aroused by his voice and position as by the sensations inside her. Putting both hands to his hips, she starts a steady back and forth motion. Truly fucking him, if carefully, and in three more pushes she’s all the way in; Martin’s whole body shudders and he groans loudly, “God, Molly!”

Whispering, “Yes, baby,” Molly angles her hips so the nubs are firmer against her clit, and continues. Faster this time. Martin starts pushing back into her forward motions and this only rocks the other end of the dildo inside her a little more, makes those bumps impact her clit more efficiently. Molly’s moans intertwine with Martin’s, and she sees the movement of his arm, knows he’s stroking himself. Moisture trickles down the insides of her thighs, the sensations building faster now.

Leaning lower over Martin’s back, she hears him murmuring, “Yes, yes, give it to me, yes, Molly, fuck me…” Her mouth goes dry with a raw surge of lust, sending her spiralling faster toward her orgasm.

“Oh, Martin, yes!” Molly groans, hoping hearing her will do for him what hearing HIM is doing for her. “You feel so good, baby. Come for me, Martin.” Martin’s hips rock unevenly a couple of times, then he pushes back into her with a long, deep groan shaped into Molly’s name; he’s coming, hard.

Molly grips the shaft of the dildo, pressing it into her harder for a few more rolls of her hips, then her own orgasm rumbles up through her. Crooning Martin’s name, she wriggles a bit more, not quite a forward or backward motion, and slumps over him, panting.

After a few minutes, occasional soft hums of lingering pleasure escaping them both, Martin turns his head to ask, “So… think the experiment’s a success?”

Molly snorts at the understatement, then just bursts into giggles.

END

~MF-Anon


	3. AskBox Ficlet: Avengers/BBC Sherlock - TS/SR & SH/JW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Steve came down the stairs with heavy steps, humming a tune that was popular amongst American soldiers more than half a century in the past. A second voice joins in, singing instead of humming, slurred words breaking off into giggles after only a few words.

Jarvis’ smooth voice asking if Steve needs assistance happens at the same time that two dark heads lift from where they’d been bent over a 3D schematic. Steve politely thanks Jarvis, but says he can handle it just fine.

“Steve, darling, what’ve you done to my study-buddy’s squeeze?” Tony asks as Steve enters with John slung over his shoulder. Face flushed from dangling over Steve’s back, John’s still giggling and trying to sing.

As Steve gently eases John off his shoulder and onto the sofa, Sherlock rolls his eyes, one corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “He didn’t bother to tell John he metabolises alcohol too rapidly to get drunk.”

Steve looks a perfect cross between guilty and amused.

Tony shakes his head, chuckling, voice fondly snarky. “You need to wait till I’m around to get in touch with your inner bastard, babe.” 

The End

MF~Anon


	4. AskBox Fic: Star Trek Reboot - JK/S

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(Pretty much all the Star Trek that can be written has been, but I suppose we could say that about Sherlock Holmes, too, right? So, we thought, why not try shaking that tree for one more nut. Moose was the only one brave enough to try, and it seems the reward was a bit of an old chestnut with a ST Reboot coating. Right, then.)_
> 
>  
> 
> This was for [Tysolna](http://tysolna.tumblr.com/)

**That Face**

Jim Kirk sat down with just a hint of a wheeze to his laughter – edging on giggling at this point, but he was going to blame the thin air if anyone asked – as Spock gave his smudged blue uniform tunic a pointless straightening tug before crouching down next to his rather more scraped, smudged, and battered captain to examine his injuries. “Your face… oh, S-sp-spock, your… your f… ha-ha-hee-hey, ow!”

“My face has not changed in any appreciable way since we first met, other than – perhaps – currently, where there may be early signs of bruising on my left cheekbone.” Warmer than human fingers were as gentle as could be expected while checking the Captain’s ribs for damage, obviously trying to avoid the worst of the shallow scratches. Spock’s tone, however, was cool and crisp; his expression the same, though bordering on that subtle angle of eyebrows and mouth he got that hinted he was finding his captain less than inspiring and possibly a bit ridiculous, but wasn’t going to point it out because Vulcans are too civilized to mock inferior races.

Wincing as Spock found a particularly tender spot, Jim’s amusement faded a little, but wasn’t gone. “No, the _look_ on your face. Oh, Spock. Priceless – hey!” Protesting as Spock suddenly tore a strip from his slightly-shredded uniform tunic, Kirk frowned. “Don’t punish the uniform when you’d rather be taking it out on me.”

“I require something to bind the cuts on your arm,” Spock explained calmly. “The garment is already ruined.” Doing exactly as he’d claimed, Spock wrapped the goldenrod fabric firmly around the row of slashes on Jim’s forearm to staunch the already slowing bleeding. “Your interpretation of my actions is erroneous.” He might as well have ended his words with ‘as usual’ or ‘of course’ – Jim knew quite well he was thinking them.

“So, you’re telling me that, when the Hubgawhatsis—”

“Hubeg’wai’zhess,” corrected Spock as he tied off the ends of the impromptu bandage.

“Like I said… when it knocked me on my ass and started to drag me off to make me its love slave, or whatever,” Jim continued, not hindering Spock’s efforts to provide first aid in any appreciable way, but not really helping, either. 

“If you had attended properly to the linguistics module, you would know it declared it was going to _eat_ you, Captain.” Spock’s tone was as firm as could be managed while not raising the volume of his voice. He tore another strip off Jim’s uniform with quite a bit of zeal, though; obviously only more confused when that seemed to make his Captain snicker.

“I was there for the module, I got the gist of it, and I’m sure we both know that what that big hunk of claws and fur wanted was more than a free lunch, Spock.” Despite having been the object of a recently-discovered alien species’ vigorous acquisitional interests, Jim was still finding the whole business a great deal more amusing than his first officer. “And I know you know that, because _that_...” Jim was grinning with the kind of knowing cheek that had more than once in his life got him punched, and he underscored his point by aiming his index finger at Spock. “ _That_ is what brought on my second-ever sighting of the rare and elusive Vulcan Bitch Face.”

“I had no such…” Spock’s denial trailed off as he reared back, one hand still on Jim’s thigh, just above where he’d been tying another make-shift bandage over a spectacularly skinned knee. “What face?”

“Bitch face,” Jim explained with easy cheer, blue eyes almost sparkling. “The most rare of all, of course, seeing how you Vulcans are all about sucking it up and keeping everything internal. The Vulcan Bitch Face.” His brows lifted as he watched Spock’s face closely – far more closely and cannily than many gave him credit for – waiting for his response.

“What does a female Terran companion animal have to do with—”

Jim interrupted with a humorously-pained expression, “Spock! C’mon, stop. I know you know what I mean. Bitch face. Not ‘bitch’ meaning a female dog, no, but the vernacular for someone who’s just put themselves at the top of your ‘smackdown’ list. So, it’s the expression that says, to that person, ‘Bitch, you did _not_ just say that’ or sometimes it’s ‘Bitch, you did not just _do_ that.’ Though, I think both apply here, really, don’t you? I must say, that was one hell of a smackdown, too. Nice work, Spock.”

“I think you must have sustained a blow to the head, Captain,” Spock replied slowly, his eyes slightly more narrowed than normal, tone very firm. Very, very firm. His lips had thinned slightly, as well. 

“Not this time, nope,” Jim replied with a grin and far more confidence than seemed reasonable. The warm hand still resting on his knee was gripping at that point, also very firmly. Tilting his head, leaning back on the stone bench with another suppressed wince, Jim’s brows went up again and his voice took on a teasing undertone. “Ahhh, and there’s the ‘thinking of strangling my captain again’ look. Yep.”

“I would never contemplate such a thing, Captain,” Spock denied sternly.

“Yes, you would, and did.” Jim actually winked. Spock’s mouth was already opening to argue, but he was forced to shut it with an almost audible snap. He couldn’t deny he’d once very nearly choked Jim Kirk to unconsciousness.

In a voice that would have warned any of his subordinates to abort whatever conversation had brought that sharp, hard voice – and the accompanying intently-focused glare – into existence, Spock enunciated every syllable precisely as he said, “Technically, you were not my captain on that occasion.”

“So maybe not strangling, then?” Voice lower, even more teasing, Jim sat up slowly and then leaned forward – his wince was miniscule. “Locking in the brig?” Spock’s expression did not change. “Punching?” Not a twitch from Spock, though his fingers on Jim’s knee tightened the most infinitesimal increment more. “Tossing out an airlock?” Again no apparent response, and Jim leaned even closer, mere inches separating his and Spock’s faces. “I’ve seen it before, Spock, I know it means something. Maybe you just want to use your Vulcan neck pinch thing to shut me up, hm?”

Spock’s gaze hadn’t left Jim’s, and he just shook his head slightly. 

Bright blue eyes still full of humor and something entirely else, Jim placed his hand atop Spock’s very lightly, blinking reactively at what he felt when Spock twitched, as if suddenly shocked with static electricity. A shiver ran up Jim’s spine at the same time, his voice sounding a little less teasing and more… thrown. “Should I keep guessing?”

Very nearly in a growl, Spock murmured, “No,” as he surged up and forward to close that very small distance between them. 

The sound Jim made when Spock’s mouth contacted his own was not one of surprise. Minutes later, several very long minutes, when his mouth was freed, Jim grinned the wickedest of grins and nodded. “Yep. Knew it.”

“Jim, we both know you did not.” Spock was slightly flushed a very pale green, just the tiniest bit breathless, and his expression was a mixture of irritation and arousal that had previously resembled something more like barely-suppressed anger.

“I absolutely d—” Jim’s cocky claim was cut off by a very warm, surprisingly talented Vulcan mouth.

After only a few more seconds, not quite a minute, Spock pulled back enough to say, “I must warn you, Jim, that the strangling option is not entirely without its allure.”

Smirking – something closer to a knowing leer – Jim nodded as he murmured against Spock’s mouth, “Yeah, okay, you sweet-talker, you,” before shutting up and making a proper job of enjoying his victory. Technically, he may have actually lost the argument, but Jim didn’t particularly give a damn, since that hadn’t been what he was actually trying to win, in the first place. 

~Moose


	5. Non-AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock/H.P. Lovecraft - MollyH, MH, SH.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2nd Person POV: Tygermama. You're visiting a friend in hospital, get on the elevator to leave, and things go very weirdly wrong from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For[Tygermama](http://tygermama.tumblr.com) in response to her [request post](http://tygermama.tumblr.com/post/64929106647/reblog-if-you-dare-someone-to-write-a-fic-about-you-and)._

**You And Molly In A Horror Film Cliché**

**Pt 1**

You're in the hospital, visiting a friend recovering from fairly minor surgery. Since you came late, it's not long before visiting hours are over and you've got to go. The corridors are fairly hushed, most visitors have already gone, and even the lights have been turned down a bit.

At the elevators, you wait long enough that you almost consider taking the stairs, but just when you start to turn away you hear the 'ding'. It's one of those elevators with two sets of solid metal doors facing one another on opposite sides, and the area inside is large—meant to hold a wheeled gurney along with people—which makes you feel a little odd to be in it alone.

The elevator starts downward, you've got four floors to bypass before you get to the lobby, and you feel drowsy at the low hum of the motor and the subtle vibration of the movement. One floor passes with a subdued little 'ding', the interval quite long due to how slow the elevator seems to be travelling. The overhead light has the slightest random flicker, as if one of the fluorescent tubes is thinking about dying soon, but luckily there's none of that irritating buzz some of them get. You absently count seconds between the flickers, finding they're apparently random, roughly three to seven seconds apart. It's almost lulling, counting the seconds between flickers.

You begin to feel still and heavy, which is strange, because you don't think you should feel this sleepy all of the sudden. You vaguely try to remember when you last ate as you blink slowly... and blink a little more slowly... and then you're standing in the elevator with your eyes closed. Just for a minute, you think. You'll open them when you hear the fourth 'ding'—ground floor. 

The second ding seems even quieter than the first, the rumbling and the muted vibrations are soothing, and you can see the dim flickering of the faulty light through your eyelids, like something out of someone else's daydream. Well, it's not daytime, so would that be a dream, then? You contemplate the notion idly as you wait for the third 'ding'. And wait. And wait...

You gasp when the elevator gives a sudden groaning jolt, your eyes snapping open at once, and you look up at the lights over the opposite set of doors to see if you are, actually, on the second floor—that's what the next 'ding' was meant to indicate. 

The lighted markers for the hospital floors run from '8' down to '1', then show 'L'. Or they did when you went up to see your friend. Now they show three more markers on the other side of the lighted 'L' that go from B to B1 and then B2. You're quite sure those weren't there earlier.

The B1 is lit, but unlike the others, which lit white behind black numbers, this B1 is a deep yellowish-green, like a failing glowstick at Halloween. The elevator gives another shift, a lurch that feels like it's either slipped downward a bit, but—impossibly—also like it shook side-to-side a little at the same time. 

You look for the emergency panel, where there's usually an intercom or phone to call someone to let them know you're stuck. A little thrill of panic stabs through you when you don't find anything but a smooth wall beneath the buttons, and you turn to look around, hoping for... what? You haven't shouted or screamed—not yet, you think, not till I've exhausted other options—because you're going to stay calm. You hate those films where the person in the crisis goes to pieces like an airhead without trying anything sensible to help themselves; you are _not_ going to be that person. So, you look again, blinking repeatedly, as if that will focus your eyes more sharply, and not at all because you're scared. Right.

To the side of the doors opposite those which admitted you into the elevator, you feel a line in the smooth surface of the wall; a line that is part of a rectangular break in the wall. You try to pry it up, follow the fine gap all the way around, and one fingertip skates over the tacky residue that was probably once an instruction sticker of some sort. Crouching down, you peer at it to find the merest hint of block letters, the ghostly after-image of whatever was on that sticker: P SH O EN. 

After just a couple of seconds of impatient grimacing at the thing, trying to make out more letters, you give a soft 'tsk' sound at yourself and push that spot. With a subdued 'click', the panel opens. You can't help giving a triumphant, "Ha!" as you see the old-fashioned black telephone handset inside. 

Just as your fingers touch the hard black plastic, the elevator gives a shuddering lurch, stronger this time, and you instinctively grab for the safety-railing as your stomach flip-flops from the sudden falling sensation. This time a little hint of a scream slips out of you, cut off and muffled as soon as you can clamp your jaw shut.

With a thudding jolt, the elevator stops moving as suddenly as it started, and your knees bend with that instant of displaced inertia, but you don't fall and your legs aren't broken, not even a little sprained, and the logical, rational part of your mind is trying really hard to ignore the tiny part of your mind that's still reviewing old horror films for what might happen next.

The 'ding' makes you twitch this time, because it's off-key and louder than before, and the 'B2' is lit a dull, strange olive-green colour—like the previous yellow-green has been burnt. A grinding sound comes from the doors opposite the ones you entered by, and you're not sure why you're backing away, but your back bumps the still-shut doors that you used earlier all the same.

When the doors open, grinding more harshly and moving in uneven little surges, you see a nearly-dark corridor beyond—why are you surprised it's recognizable as a hospital corridor? Again, you don't know. The lights are flickering here, but it's the opposite of the elevator's light; instead of being mostly lit with a little intermittent dimness, these lights are mostly dark with intermittent flickers of light. The tiles just outside the elevator doors are wet, you can see the glint of reflections in the liquid, but it's not... it's dark, not clear like water. You should get out of the defective elevator, and you want to, but... okay, that little part of your brain that was reviewing horror film scenes? Yes, well, this qualifies.

The doors give another low grinding sound and start to stutter slowly closed again; you can't decide for certain if you mind. 

A voice, female and breathlessly agitated, sounds from somewhere down the corridor, "Oh, god! Please, wait! Please, hold the doors!" 

The sound of uneven but hurried footsteps comes to your ears at the last words and you reach out to stab the 'open door' button without hesitation. 

Moments later, a young woman in a rumpled, torn, scorched and blood-spattered lab coat nearly skids off her feet in the liquid outside the doors as she comes to a stop from what was clearly a run. One of her trouser legs is almost soaked in blood from mid-thigh down, and a tightly-wrapped bandage marks the spot where it likely came from. She grabs at the edge of the doors, eyes wide and mousy brown hair wildly loose from a nearly-gone pony tail, and looks you up and down hurriedly. "Oh, thank god! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Pt 2**

Meeting the wide brown eyes of the mussed, wounded, and clearly distressed young woman in the lab coat, you can't help asking, "What's going on?"

"I—oh, no!" She cuts herself off at an odd noise echoing down the corridor, whipping her head to the side and half-turning to look back the way she came. You belatedly realise she has a British accent, but it's a vague point of interest in a side-alley of your thoughts, most of which are focused on many questions about what's going on and why and how you can avoid being involved in anything remotely like what this seems to be turning into.

"What?" You press when the woman stands there, one hand still on one of the elevator doors. "What is it?" You belatedly notice she's got what you're fairly certain is a bone saw, smeared with something darker than blood.

"I couldn't begin to explain, because I don't really know," is the answer, the woman's voice breathless and probably the sort that's soft and high normally. "Just, it's impossible, and I know it sounds mad, but I locked them in the..." She trails off and you know why, because you heard that same odd sound again. A shuffling, whispering sound, like something brushing against the walls or... you find yourself at the opening, peering around with a sort of nightmare-quality curiosity, and you just know—if you were watching yourself on television or in a film—you'd be shouting in frustration at yourself. The far end of the corridor is dark, the overhead lights all out but for one mid-way which is also flickering like those here by the elevator, and you hear the woman exhale shakily even as you see movement in the flickering perimeter of that mid-way light.

It's not a person, it's not any recognisable shape that a person could make, but the arcs and swirls of faintly glinting light remind you of... of what? Of coils, of spaghetti, of worms, of snakes, of... deep sea creatures with multiple tentacles. "Where did you lock them in?" Your words are a disbelieving whisper, because you can't be seeing this, this doesn't happen in real life.

"The morgue. I guess they got out," the woman says, her voice nearly as quiet as yours, and she pushes you back inside as the forms grow more clear: tentacles, dark and glistening in the flickers of light, roiling and rolling closer, nearly filling the corridor. The sound is increasingly like that indistinct rustling along with wet skin on wet skin, and a squelching that was unpleasantly reminiscent of the sound of open-mouthed chewing.

The frozen moment, where you both stand there in stunned horror, passes as she pushes you back into the elevator at the same time as you grab for her arm to pull her inside while stabbing the 'close doors' button repeatedly; as a consequence, you both tumble inside in a jumble of arms and legs and the clang-scrape of the bone saw hitting the wall—luckily—followed by the bump of the doors closing.

"I don't know if the elevator will even work," you say as you both scramble to your feet, hating to say it, but someone has to and you're the only one who knows it was acting up previously. Not all that surprisingly, you're both standing shoulder-to-shoulder, both still looking at the just-closed doors warily. 

"Elevator? Oh, the lift, right. You must be American." The woman hits the 'L' by stretching out her arm and leaning over, trying to keep as much of herself away from the doors as possible. There's a rumble and a jolt, then the whole elevator shudders. "Here's hoping," she murmurs as she steps back with you against the other doors. 

You sort of wish you hadn't remembered they were doors, too, and you give a full-body twitch before putting your back to the adjacent wall. "Dual doors," you say nervously as you tug on the woman's arm.

"Oh, God," she replies and moves at once. The lift starts moving upward and she holds out her empty hand. "Molly Hooper."

You give her your name, shake hands, and start to say something else when there's a heavy 'THUD' against the bottom of the elevator doors Molly came in through. "Oh, crap," you say in a small voice. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Pt 3**

The elevator is vibrating with a low rumble, seemingly rising despite previous evidence suggesting such a thing would never happen again, and your fingers ache from your hold on the metal railing affixed on the inner wall. The elevator is moving slowly, though, possibly slower than before, and you can clearly hear something scraping across the outside of the doors, the sound moving downward as the elevator moves upward.

Molly looks at you, then at the doors again. You’re afraid to comment, suddenly superstitious in spite of all common sense, and then your gaze goes to the doors, too.

The scraping sounds louder, stops, and then is followed by a louder ‘THUD’ than before, and then another as something—you know what, you just don’t want to think on it too hard—bangs against the doors; the elevator jolts with each impact, creaking sounds adding to the groaning and rumbling. Molly makes a squeaking sort of inhaling sound, holding out the bone saw in a white-knuckled grip.

Once more you hear that sliding, scraping evidence of movement at the very bottom edge of the doors, then nothing but the rumbling shudder of the elevator’s slow climb upward.

Whispering, you turn to Molly. “What… what…” clearing your throat, you try again, “what _can_ you tell me?”

Molly gives a little full-body shiver and licks her lips, eyes still on the doors as she starts to speak. “I don’t know much. A body came in a couple of hours ago. Apparently a murder victim… some kind of ritual sacrifice thing…” Trailing off, she licks her lips and swallows heavily before turning to look at you as no more sounds seem to be coming from the doors. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Symbols all over the body, and designs… some of them painted on and some… um… carved into the skin.”

“Uck,” you mutter. 

“Yeah,” Molly agrees, a quick titter of nervous laughter escaping her. She clears her throat, obviously aware how it sounded, and goes on. “The cause of death seemed to be drowning, because none of the cuts were deep enough to have done it, but the body was soaking wet, lungs full of water… you know, all the signs of drowning.” The elevator gives a slightly deeper groan of strain and a muted little ‘ding’, the ‘B1’ lighting up once more, again that weird yellowish-green. Molly waits, as do you, watching the doors. 

Nothing more occurs than the elevator’s slow, noisy movement upward, the creaks and groans almost falling into a rhythm now. 

“So… what happened with the body?” You can’t help prompting into the dangling gap of an unfinished narrative.

“Well, the usual, I verified it and filled out the paperwork to schedule the autopsy before putting it into the cold storage with the rest.” Taking a few deeper breaths, Molly shakes her head slowly as her eyes focus on some point beyond your actual face. “I was entering the file into the computer, sitting across the room from the body… a-and I heard a noise. Like… well, it was…” Grimacing, her gaze meets yours again and she gestures a little helplessly with her free hand. “It was a kind of _organic_ noise. You get weird noises from bodies sometimes, of course. Gas bubbles shifting in the intestines, air… well, you know… escaping.” Another grimace and an eye-roll. “But this was more like… oh, ugh… like if you’ve ever mixed up a meatloaf with your hands? Squishing it between your fingers?”

“Oh, yes… eugh,” you confirm and comment with an all-purpose noise of disgust. Molly nods.

“Exactly. So I turned around and saw the corpse’s stomach was… it was moving.” Licking her lips, Molly gives you an almost pleading look, clearly thinking _this_ was the part you weren’t going to believe. As if. “It was moving like something was inside the body cavity; a sort of rolling movement… and it was getting bigger.”

All you can do is swallow, because no, you saw those tentacles or whatever they were in the corridor down there, it’s not a big leap to imagine inhabited corpses. You may very well have seen a film with that concept. Oh, dear, not the best thought to have, actually. Nodding, you encourage Molly to go on with a little gesture of one hand.

“I couldn’t imagine what it could be, because even if someone had… had… I don’t know… _sewn_ something into the body? There’d be an incision, and there wasn’t.” Molly licked her lips again and shook her head, continuing in a softer voice than before. “All I could think of was—I know this sounds silly—was a horror film I saw a few years ago, where there were alien things in people’s stomachs.” You nod vigorously, remembering that whole series of films, actually. Molly nods in return; seemingly relieved you know what she means. “Yeah, so, I opened the cold storage door and… and… God, I was shaking so hard I could hardly _move_ , but I pushed it in… even as the skin was… was starting to tear? And I closed the door, locking it.”

“But that didn’t hold it,” you say, because obviously not. Molly shakes her head, eyes widening a little.

“No. I went to call for security, but… but I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me or that…” Molly shrugs, looking frightened and pained. “I was still a little afraid _I_ didn’t believe me, you know?”

“Oh, yeah,” you agree, nodding. “I’d be worried about that, too.” You snort softly and shake your head. “In fact, I sort of am… worried about that.” You and Molly catch each other’s eyes, both of you clearly stressed and worried, but neither of you doubts what you’ve seen now, that much is also clear.

Clearing her throat, Molly makes a little flopping gesture of one hand and goes on. “Finally, I called someone else I know, asking him to come down, but…” With a little shrug, Molly sighs. “I honestly don’t know if he believed me or was just humouring me.”

“He didn’t come?” You ask, though it’s kind of obvious, and Molly shakes her head.

“I was trying to decide who else I could call when the… whatever it is… they are… started banging on the door.” Her deep breath is a little shaky, but you don’t interrupt, though maybe you press your shoulder against hers a little more firmly. She flashes you a grateful little almost-smile. “I was sure it would hold, but… well, I grabbed the first thing I came to,” she waggles the bone saw briefly, “just in case. I thought I was going to wet myself when one of those tentacle things _bent the bottom of the door out_ … I’ve never heard a sound like that before. Metal bending and that… that squishing, squeezing… ugh. I was so terrified, but I… well, tried sawing the things off as they came out.”

“Oh, my god, Molly!” you gasp, because not only disgusting, sure, but _brave!_

“I know! It was awful!” She shakes her head, nose wrinkling in remembered disgust as she looks at the gore smeared bone saw. “Finally, they were coming out too fast for me to keep up with and… and some grabbed me and… the hinges on the door and the lock started to give way.” You know she’s right here, standing next to you, but you hold your breath anyway as she swallows again, and you feel the little tremor running through her body via the line of contact where your arms are pressed together. “I-it caught me three… maybe four times before I got away… I just hacked at it like mad and it must… they?... must feel pain, because the tentacles loosened. Anyway, I got out and ran and hit the button for the lift, but had to double back and… I thought I’d lost it. Then you and the lift arrived and… and here we are.”

“Well, holy shit,” you breathe. “I was just here visiting a friend.”

“Do you live in London?” Molly asks, the question sounding so normal in this highly _ab_ normal situation. 

“London?” You look at her in confusion. “I’ve never been to England.”

Molly frowns, also confused. “You mean… before now?”

“What?” You shake your head, feeling a creeping sensation of unreality along with the confusion.

Just then, the elevator gives a groaning creak which makes you and Molly gasp in fearful anticipation as it shudders to a stop. Another little ‘ding’ sounds, the ‘B’ lights up a dim yellowish-white, and the doors slowly start to open. 

By the unspoken rule of two people caught in a terrifying situation facing potential doom, you and Molly scoot back into the corner, holding onto one another tightly, Molly brandishing the bone saw with a fierce grip, though a trembling arm and hand. You want to close your eyes just as much as you want to see what’s beyond the doors, so you squint one eye mostly closed and turn your head slightly away.

The metal doors part to reveal a relatively ordinary-looking parking garage; however, just as you recognise that fact, a man steps into view from off to the side of the doors. Both you and Molly start, gasping in tandem before she gives a breathy little squeak, and you let out a more vocal, ‘AH!’ that’s just short of a shout. 

The man is tall and fair-skinned with tidy dark-auburn hair, dressed in a charcoal-grey three-piece suit, carrying a thick book under one arm, and an umbrella in the opposite hand. He extends the tip of the umbrella to keep the doors open, his lips pulling into a restrained, knowing, and very mildly sardonic little smile just before he says in a voice that matches his expression, “Don’t be alarmed, ladies. I’m here to lend my assistance.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Pt 4**

“Oh, God! Mycroft?!” Molly exclaims in something like shocked relief; the last word is just blatant confusion. 

The man in the suit gives a twist of the lips that might be a distant cousin of a smile, but only just. “Sherlock was called away to investigate another ritualistic murder, but we agreed it would be best if I came to ascertain just what we’re dealing with, here.” The man’s eyes are sharply focused, intent in a way that makes you feel a little uneasy—uneasier?—because it’s like he’s seeing right through your eyes into your brain. Then they sweep down your body and up again and his head tilts just the tiniest increment. “How interesting.”

Molly shakes her head, stumbling over her words trying to get them out fast. “The m-murder Sherlock’s… a body with symbols all over it? Some inked and some cut into the skin? Looks like drowning’s the cause of death?” 

“Yes,” the man—Mycroft, apparently, though what kind of name _that_ is you don’t know—looks down at Molly, those blue-grey laser-beam eyes now focused upon her. Even as Molly’s drawing in a shaking breath to go on, Mycroft’s brows go up and he murmurs, “Oh, dear.” Hooking his umbrella over the arm holding that big book, he pulls out a mobile phone with his now-freed hand. “Please, carry on, Dr. Hooper,” he encourages.

“I locked the body in the cold storage. You know how solid that door is,” Molly continues as Mycroft hits two numbers and holds the phone to his ear. “It took a few hours from time of death, but…” She trails off as Mycroft nods at her, holds up one finger and, but a moment later, starts speaking in a crisp, concise manner.

“Sherlock, it is imperative you listen closely. If the body has symbols all over its surface, both cut and inked, as well as showing typical signs of drowning, assume it has been used as a vessel for a summoning and take all precautions.” He waits, obviously listening, and then his chin dips in the ghost of a nod as he speaks again. “Yes, exactly. I am at Bart’s with Dr. Hooper and a young Canadian woman. No, I believe she was displaced by the inter-planar corona effect when the final layer of the summoning recrudesced.” He pauses to listen again, making a murmur of acknowledgement at something this Sherlock person—another name that makes your inner sceptical eyebrow twitch upward—is saying.

You look at Molly, who looks back at you with almost the same level of confused dread. Displaced? In the what? She looks downward as the faint sounds of movement echoes up the elevator shaft, and her eyes widen. Your own eyes do, as well, because you’re both still _in_ the elevator. You both start to get out, but Mycroft whispers sharply, “No, stay there, please.”

“But…” Molly starts to protest, never getting past the first word as she subsides at the open elevator door.

“I think it’s coming up the elevator shaft,” You say, the fear of being killed and possibly eaten—worse still, it possibly being done in the opposite order—far stronger than any intimidation you feel from this odd man in his perfectly-tailored suit with his compelling aura of implied power.

Mycroft cocks his head, gaze sweeping over you and Molly and then downward. After a moment, he catches your gaze, saying in a firm undertone, “Not just yet. Remain calm.” Into his mobile, he says in a more normal speaking voice, “Yes, exactly. And now I must get to work. I have the book, but the timing should be such that I may finish here and come straight to you with time to spare… yes, I know, but a basic containment—very well then, you know your own mind. _Bon chance, mon frère_.” Thumbing his phone to end the call, Mycroft gives a soft, long-suffering sort of sigh. “He’s so stubborn.”

Molly gives a fear-edged little titter of amusement, but shakes her head and puts her free hand over her mouth, muffling her quiet little, “Sorry.”

You’re about to ask why you and Molly have to stay in the elevator, but Mycroft speaks before you can; his expression is cool and pragmatic, though there is a tiny gentling of his tone as he catches your gaze. “I do apologise, I know it’s unnerving, but I cannot be sure you will be able to get back home again if you leave the locus of your bilocation.” Frowning, you try to puzzle that out, but he doesn’t leave you hanging more than a second before explaining. “Since you were brought here in that lift, the rift your arrival caused in this plane is weaker there than anywhere else; if you stray too far away from it, I may not be able to send you back.”

Your stomach gives a lurch and your extremities go cold. “So…” Despite all the distraction of terrifying tentacled things and bone-saw wielding doctors in frightening elevators, you can piece the clues together well enough to realise you’re not in Canada anymore. “We’re… so… is this London… _England_?”

Mycroft inclines his head with the sort of dignity you didn’t think anyone had anymore and Molly grips your arm, her expression worried. “You were in a hospital in Canada?”

Nodding, feeling a little floaty about the edges, you swallow heavily. “I was visiting my friend at Toronto General, and I got in the elevator to leave and go back to my motel when… well, weird things happened and then I met you, Molly, and saw… that… the tentacles and… well, now there’s you, um, Mycroft” You conclude somewhat dazedly.

Studying you for just a moment longer, Mycroft seems to understand you well enough, and nods again. “Yes. And, if we can handle this promptly, it may well be you’ll be back in Toronto within the hour.”

“Works for me,” You say in a small, tight voice. 

“But… but, how?” Molly asks with a frown. 

“We haven’t time for me to explain it adequately now, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft says as he taps some keys on his phone again and begins speaking so quickly that you’re sure it couldn’t have rung more than once at the other end. “Murray, please close the circle now, we’re about to begin. Once you’re in place, ring Chance and instruct him to take a second team to Sherlock’s location, where we will be doing this again. Yes. Thank you, and the same to you.” He ends his call and tucks the mobile away, stepping forward to stand in the open elevator doorway, on the line separating the stationary structure of the basement level and the movable structure of the elevator. “Now, you,” he glances at you briefly as he quickly pulls out a notebook and a pen—if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, it would’ve seemed nearly like a magic trick—and flips to a blank page before resting the notebook atop the heavy old book in his other hand. “Since you must remain here in this lift to avoid being lost or stranded, you will be our anchor. I will write three phrases for you to chant. And by chant, I merely mean you should just repeat them at a steady pace, over and over again. It will sound a bit mad and you will feel foolish, but do it, nevertheless.”

You’re reaching out as he tears the page free, taking it with a kind of mental numbness which is the result of too many weird things too fast, and it’s a little easier, actually, to just go with it all than to keep struggling to figure out what all of this means. He’s written three lines of words, broken into easy phonetic syllables, and it must be the stress of all this strangeness that makes the lines and curves on the page seem to move the tiniest bit, as if they’re under mostly-still water or your eyes have gone funny.

“Dr. Hooper, you will guard the lift door while I do my part,” Mycroft tells Molly as he motions for her to make room for him to enter the elevator. “If something goes awry and it gets past me, both of you must return here to this level and find the fire stairs to exit.” He pushes the button to take you down to the last place you really want to go now. “Once you’re outside, my people will be waiting and take you to someplace safer.” The elevator gives a shudder, a creak, and starts moving.

“What about you?” You ask, unable not to do so. Mycroft turns to give you a look that’s both knowing and a little sardonic. Your somewhat-out-of-order brain catches up and you feel a little silly and a lot apprehensive, with a side of apologetic. “Oh. Sorry,” you murmur, and he nods just once. Of course, if the… creature… gets past him, it’s likely because he’ll be dead. 

“Try to think positively, Miss,” Mycroft says as the elevator groans, whispering sounds of movement against the outside of it echoing strangely, and the whole structure of the elevator car vibrates with tiny, irregular jiggles and jolts. It’s your turn to give him a look—yours incredulous—and he actually gives you a small amused smirk as he taps the tip of his umbrella smartly on the floor. The sound seems inordinately sharp, and you belatedly look down because you’re almost sure you caught a dim flicker of light from floor-level in your peripheral vision. Mycroft distracts you by speaking again, voice calm and confident. “I assure you, I would hardly attempt this if I didn’t believe there was a reasonable chance of success.”

You swallow, nodding, and you catch Molly’s eye, finding she’s looking afraid and determined. Yes, that’s sort of how you feel, a bit. If this is really happening, you’d best do your part as well as you can, right? Right, then. The whispering sounds outside increase just a bit before fading away, like uncountable fingers brushing and scrabbling at the outside of the elevator, but your imagination isn’t picturing _fingers_. Your heart is thudding uncomfortably hard and fast in your chest, and you feel ice cold fingers twine in yours—Molly, luckily—so you grip tightly, figuring she must be feeling pretty much the same.

The elevator shudders to a halt with a lopsided high-pitched sound that might have once been a ‘ding’ in another life, the B2 light is still that ugly olive colour, dimmer than before, and the long, wavering, hollow groan echoing through the elevator car and up the shaft makes your stomach clench. If that’s not the death-cry of the poor elevator, then it certainly can’t be anything good. 

Mycroft clears his throat softly, and you notice he’s holding the ‘close doors’ button down. “Once you begin the chant, don’t stop until it’s all over.” Even as you open your mouth to ask, he adds firmly, “You’ll know when it’s over. There will be a large surge of energy and then a profound quiet.”

You nod. Molly’s fingers tighten in yours. Mycroft opens the big book and then nods to both of you before turning to face the nearer set of doors, taking his finger off the button keeping them closed. As the doors slowly open with a low grating sound, Mycroft hefts his umbrella in his now-free hand—more like a weapon than a device to fend off rain—and steps deliberately out of the elevator, stopping after that one long step. 

The smell of damp, mould, and foetid decay waft into the elevator, along with a chill that creeps along the floor and makes your feet ache within seconds. The rustling, slithering sounds of movement are not nearly as distant as you’d like them to be, though you’re plenty happy they weren’t waiting to wriggle and twist into the elevator as soon as the doors opened. Mycroft turns smoothly to face in the direction from which Molly came a million years ago… it was probably only twenty minutes or so, but it feels like forever… and he clears his throat, twice, next saying without looking towards you, “Begin.”

Clearing your own throat, glancing at Molly with a deep breath and the trembling of nerves in all your limbs, you start saying the words on the notebook paper. They feel odd in your mouth, and your voice sounds louder and strangely echoey after the first line, but you don’t stop. Maybe that means it’s working?

Mycroft starts intoning words of his own, voice quite loud and ringing with the kind of projection and energetic enunciation that is as different from his previous methods of speech as a nursery rhyme is different from an operatic aria with full orchestral accompaniment. It’s impressive, a little uncanny, and somehow makes you feel stronger and taller; your own voice gets stronger, too, and Molly’s hand in your squeezes and then shakes your clasped hands a little. Encouragement, you’re sure. Glancing away from the paper for an instant, you see her eyes are wide and she’s nodding; yes, encouragement.

From down the dim corridor, overhead lights still flickering spastically, you hear the most unnerving sound yet, which is nearly indescribable; if you had to try, you’d say it was like an amplified version of the squish/squeak/whoosh noises your stomach makes a while after dinner. And yet, it’s more than that, as if those sounds were being used to shape words in a language never meant for humans to attempt. The word _‘borborygmus’_ drifts up out of your subconscious, reminding you that you looked up the word for belly-noises in the past, and you almost lose your place in your chanting when a nervously frightened titter tries to escape you. Almost. You manage to keep going, but it’s a near thing. 

Still speaking, Mycroft lifts his umbrella and waves it about like a kid playing at being a wizard, or maybe a conductor. However, unlike a kid playing make-believe, the pointed metal tip of Mycroft’s umbrella leaves glowing trails in the air that linger. The dull gold fading to red-orange symbols resemble ancient writing, or maybe runes, but they’re nothing you can remember seeing before. 

The weirdly organic sounds, the disturbing borborygmus-language raises to a higher pitch, seems somehow agitated, and Mycroft’s voice gets louder, whether in answer or not, you can’t tell. He traces a circle of smaller symbols in the air, encapsulating the others he’s already got hovering eerily before him. These smaller symbols are pale greenish-blue, their light sharper, brighter, and, once he’s done tracing them in the air, Mycroft takes a step back before almost shouting one more phrase; simultaneous to his shouted words, he makes a counterclockwise circle through this outer ring of symbols, and then lunges forward with his umbrella—which he’s using like a wand, really, there’s no other way you could begin to describe it—and there’s a loud _whoosh!_ and a sudden gust of hot wind as the glowing glyphs or sigils or whatever shoot away from Mycroft almost faster than you can follow with your eyes. 

You barely remember to keep chanting as the hot wind swirls around and around in the elevator for far longer than seems possible, and Molly’s gaze is switching between you and Mycroft, her fingers almost painfully tight in your own, while she holds the bone saw out a bit in her other hand, as if ready for anything. You kind of want to see what’s going on out there with Mycroft and you also kind of don’t, but he shouts another phrase, lunging forward again, and this time he’s out of your sight. 

A moment later, a deafening roar of sound nearly knocks you off your feet, carrying on and on like the longest howl of the largest creature ever having a tantrum of epic proportions. Hot and cold winds roar back down the hallway, sweeping into the elevator to whip your hair into your face and make you squint through watering eyes, barely able to read the words you’re still chanting. The elevator gives a frighteningly hard jolt, and then several more, rocking wildly like a giant hand has just grabbed it to shake it like a maraca. You’re thrown against one of the elevator’s walls, the page from Mycroft’s notebook crumpling in your hand, and Molly’s fingers part from yours with a yank. 

After a few more moments, just as you’re considering trying to struggle to your feet and see if Molly’s okay, the wind, the violent movements, and the roaring howl cut off on an instant. Just like that, all you can hear is your own panting breath in the absolutely silent elevator. Brushing your hair back from your face, you gasp when you realise you’re alone in the elevator. 

Gripping the safety railing, you shakily get to your feet, looking for anything out of place, any lingering sign of what’s happened, and your jaw drops open when you see the lighted floor markers run ‘8’ to ‘1’ and then ‘L’, just as they had when you started this whole nightmare adventure. The ‘L’ lights up just then, a bright white behind the black letter, and the soft ‘ding’ is normal and ordinary again. The doors sliding open make you jump, a full-body twitch of alarm that you quickly subdue. 

The hospital lobby looks exactly as it did when you arrived earlier that evening, though it felt as if that was another lifetime ago. You smooth your hair as you step out, glancing around nervously, but no one seems to be paying any special attention to you. Your car is where you left it, your keys still in your pocket; thank any benevolent higher beings paying attention. 

The drive to your motel is fraught with nothing at all but your own nerves, even the stop lights seem to be in your favour. You’re apparently okay. Maybe it didn’t happen, maybe you dozed off on your feet and had the weirdest nightmare ever; then again, maybe you just helped save the world—or at least London… and possibly Toronto.

~~~

**Epilogue:**

Three weeks later, home again, your friend out of hospital and home again, too, you stop by an ATM to take out some money. Coming away, you glance at your balance to find it considerably higher than it ought to be—by five digits. You gawp at the slip of paper for almost a minute before going into the bank to point out what’s obviously been an error. But it’s not.

Between the bank teller, then the manager, and a phone call to the main branch, the deposit is confirmed to have come from a scientific research facility in England, and the notation on it shows only: ‘Consulting Fee’.

 _‘Okay, then,’_ you think as the bank manager brings you a cup of water and lets you sit in his visitor chair for a few minutes, _‘maybe it really _did_ happen.’_ It’s going to be a really nice Christmas this year.

 

END


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